


The Darkest Place You Knew

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-24
Updated: 2010-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To taste a wound is to relish in more than just the flavour of blood on the tongue; it is to ingest the very thing that gives a person life. Wherein a man lets his own obsession go a bit too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest Place You Knew

To taste a wound is to relish in more than just the flavour of blood on the tongue; it is to ingest the very thing that gives a person life. It is heat and copper and desire as it trickles down your throat, teeth chewing greedily through flesh that is tough until you break the surface, splitting apart the belly and burrowing down deep until the organs are soft against your lips and your face is slick with red.

When you sigh, when you press your forehead against the glistening hardness of bone, he whimpers. It's a sound that resonates through your chest and makes you purr, a sound that stirs you, makes you hunger.

You've never been so hungry. You ache, you need and it is this that makes you clumsy. Your teeth, gnawing deliriously on a rib, slips, catches soft tissue and breaks through the stomach and the torrent of fluid is vile in all its gushing majesty.

He screams, and his voice cracks. He shudders, fingers like claws against the floorboards, nails broken and bleeding. They have carved out long lines of desperation into the wood; his last will and testament to be traced by your tongue when his body is cold and dead.

He trembles, and then he is still.

But he's no less beautiful, your Henry, and you sigh, disappointed. You've ruined him now; the hollow of his belly is of no use to you; rank and steaming. Useless. You rise only to bury your face into the arc of his throat, eyes closing, and if you purr in contentment then... what of it?

The skin gives way beneath your fervour, beneath your teeth. It's still warm, the fount, the pleasure as you suck greedily and take him into you.

Henry may be dead, but now he lives on.

And yet... this feels so cold. So impersonal. You hum, lick your lips. You kiss his slack mouth and his glassy eyes, streaking blood across skin rapidly starting to pale. Red on white and black and those eyes, so dark and beautiful and empty. Lovely, yes, but a lovely husk is all he is and you slip your hand into the comfort of his gut, to try and touch him the way that he has touched you.

It's not enough.

When you take the knife to his body, your hand is steady. You skin him, but you're not skilled in this art, and all you do is ruin him further. Cracking the ribs you suck out the marrow, twining the long, slippery length of intestines around your fingers. Keeping those pretty eyes in a jar you do with his carcass what you will, belly full and brimming with satisfaction.

Later, you will take that skin to a master craftsman. You will ask him to treat it, to be gentle. And then you will take that leather, and fashion a pair of handsome gloves.

It's only fitting, for you to wear him on your hands; wear him as he had worn you, as he had once slipped into your body and fucked you senseless.

Only fitting.


End file.
